Cuthbert looked at his cigarette. "I asked you on the chance
that you may be able to do so," he said gravely. "The fact
is, to be frank, Mrs. Octagon appears to think you might have
something to do with the crime."

Caranby did not seem surprised, but smoked imperturbably. "I
don't quite understand."

The young man related how Mrs. Octagon had inquired if the
Earl was back from the Continent, and her subsequent remark.
"Of course I may be unduly suspicious," said he. "But it
suggested--"

"Quite so," interrupted the old gentleman gravely. "You are
quick at putting two and two together. Isabella Octagon hates
me so much that she would gladly see me on the scaffold. I am
not astonished that she suspects me."

"But what motive can she impute--"

Caranby laid aside the long coil he was holding and laughed
quietly to himself. "Oh, she'll find a motive if it suits
her. But what I cannot understand is, why she should accuse
me now. She has had ample opportunity during the past twenty
years, since the death of Miss Saul, for instance."

"She did not exactly accuse you."

"No, a woman like that would not. And then of course, her